


The Las Venturas Job

by hello_imasalesman



Series: The Las Venturas Job [1]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grand-opening of a casino, three flawed, awful, poorly matched friends, one recluse hacker, a two-bit gangster and his dog-- and a chance at making it big. Really, really big.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calls

“I’d like a number six, no pickles, and a 4-piece cinna-chicken skin? Super-size it and get my boy Frank a number eight with extra French fries.”

“Yo,”Franklin leaned towards Lamar and the drive-through menu, more offended than the situation of unwanted French fries called for, “I ain’t payin’ for extra fries, what the fuck.”

“You sure the fuck are nigga, ‘cause ever since Trevor mentioned it that one time I know why you keep the bag and just hand me my fries to the side. Eatin’ all those god damn bag fries, you chunky motherfucker—“

“Those fries fall out of my cup into the damn bag, fool! And let’s be clear, you still owe me ten dollars from _last_ time we got Bell.”

“Sir,” The drive-through speaker blared, “Is that your order?”

“Yeah. And two Sprunks, large.” Lamar shouted back. Franklin sighed, glancing towards the road as Lamar pulled the car around.

It had been six months since the heist, or the Big One, as Michael and Trevor had told him like children recalling their favorite fairy tale. _The Big One_. It had been conquered, the Union Depository emptied of gold, and the bricks sold off, and the money wired cleanly and seamlessly to their accounts. It wasn’t any coincidence that Franklin had noticed a surge in Lamar’s wallet forgetfulness, but he couldn’t exactly blame him. He had more money than he knew what to do with. That, coupled with the stocks that Lester had advised him in investing and then ‘influencing’, left him flush with cash.

Even up in the hoity toity hills and mansions, Franklin didn’t—couldn’t—forget about his home. Tanisha might have fucked off to Vinewood with some lawyer with a fresh haircut, and half of the rest of his old friends were in jail or hooked on something, but not them.

Lamar looked surprised as Franklin handed over a wad of cash. “Look. I got it this time. You get me next.”

Lamar shook his head, but he took it all the same. “Y’all just feel bad ‘cause I called your ass out on your French fry stealin’ ways.” He sniffed, turning towards the drive-through attendant with her arms burgeoning with bags of greasy food. They traded goods, and Lamar handed over the bags to Franklin. “But, y’know, thanks or whatever.”

Franklin snorted. “Well, now that Stretch ain’t makin’ you bust your ass for subpar pay, how the hell you gonna fill those long-ass wooden legs you stuff with food every hour?”

Lamar handed the last bag over and rolled the window up and pulled the car out of the drive through into the road. “You real fuckin’ keen on takin’ credit for that hit, dog, but we all know that was Sneaky Dude’s doin’. And that motherfucker was _vicious_ , yo—fuckin’ bam! Bam! Baseball bat to that nigga’s head like a god damn melon, cracked him over the asphalt.” He reached indiscriminately into the bag’s to grab a handful of fries as he drove down the street. “And I thought Trevor was a crazy motherfucker.”

Franklin laughed. “Man, they both crazy motherfuckers. Just in different ways, is all. Michael hold it all in, like some John Wayne fucker, then he’s bustin’ a nigga who steps to him or calls him fat or somethin’. Trevor just show it all out on the table. He ain’t holdin’ his cards close.”

“He ain’t got many cards to hold in the first place, if you catch my drift,” Lamar reached over to fiddle with the radio. “Not that a bad thing. Hell, they cool dudes.”

Franklin quickly unwrapped his burger and proceeded to take a huge bite. Lamar scanned through the stations. _“Radio goo-goo, radio g—Buenos dias, Los Santos, y—WEAZEL NEWS: Las Venturas welcomes a new casino to its strip; next to the Camel’s Toe and Caligula’s Palace: the Richard’s Diamond Casino is having its grand opening in one week.”_

“Yo, we oughta go to Venturas sometime homie!” Lamar stopped on the station as the newscaster continued to talk about the bustling, and clearly not economic recession struck casinos in grand detail.

Franklin groaned. “I hate going to casinos with you. All you wanna play is the same damn slots with these bitches in wolf hats and buffalo mooing at you.” Franklin sipped at his drink, leaning back in his seat. “I can’t ever play cards with you always stuck on your damn slots like some granny with her new security check.”

Lamar stole a look from the road over to Franklin. “Excuse you, you rude ass bitch, but that is my _heritage_! I got winning in my _veins_ , apache blood, apache _games,_ nigga.”

Franklin waved his free hand at Lamar; they both fell quiet as the newscaster continued to drone:

“Richard’s, for its grand opening extravaganza, will be offering not only great deals for those with crippling alcohol and gambling addictions, but will be holding a magnificent and historically important diamond exhibit; there is rumors that the magnificent Hope Diamond, given to them on loan by the Smithsonian Institute, will be there. Historians are outraged, saying such an important geological item should not be paraded out on display; unsurprisingly, the Richard’s Diamond replied, offering those outraged historians a free buffet with purchase of twenty-five dollars in slot credits. Next on WEAZEL NEWS—“

“Yo, you wanna pretend to be a crusty-ass historian? We can get a free buffet—“

“Nigga, shut the fuck up,” Franklin was already on his phone, scrolling through the web. The casino’s webpage barely worked on his phone, overburdened with flashing gifs, but he was gathering the basics. One week from now, a giant diamond, and a 5 million dollar jackpot for its grand opening.

Lamar sullenly ate some French fries. Franklin glanced up at him. “Change of plans. Can you drop me off at my place?”

“What happened to hanging out?”

A cartoon diamond blinked obnoxiously on Franklin’s phone screen. Maybe those crusty old dudes had rubbed off on him more than he wanted to admit. But the thought of all of that money, and a fucking _diamond_ —he was crazy, wasn’t he? They wouldn’t be able to manage to take that. On grand opening night, when it was so busy, and full of people that they could lost in the crowd…

Something prickled in the pit of his stomach. His fingers twitched through his contact list, and hovered over Lester’s number. “Sorry, man. I gotta make a call.”

\---

“RON! WHERE’S MY GOD DAMN COFFEE?!”

There was no noise at first. Then again, Trevor was bellowing from his room, in the vague direction of Ron’s trailer. No _normal_ person would have been able to hear him shout through the tin; but he waited, and Trevor swore if he strained his ears he could hear the rat scrambles of a man afraid of his life making him his favorite black caffeinated sludge.

Trevor heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He hadn’t slept in so long, the crash had come hard. He had been lying ‘low’ after the heist, so to speak, flying planes for Trevor Philips Industries over the border with armaments whenever he was struck by the whim to fly. His first purchase after the heist, to the chagrin of his buddies, had been a new airplane; a gorgeous little stunt plane, a Mallard, painted a jet black with his logo on the side. Just thinking about it was giving him a semi, and he rolled onto his stomach with a grunt, pressing his face into the bare mattress. The stench of his own body odor, and the faint iron of blood assaulted him back. “RON—“

“I’m here!” He yelped, approximately near the door of the trailer. Trevor didn’t bother to roll back over as Ron hesitatingly crept towards his bedroom. “Are you- are you decent, Trevor?”

The man groaned into the mattress. “I’m as covered as I’ll _get_ , Ron, now give me my coffee before I jam my dick down your throat—“

Ron stumbled into his room; to his credit, he didn’t make a peep at the dress that Trevor was clothed in, and when he rolled onto his back to accept the coffee his eyes wandered everywhere else but below the waist. His voice was strained, like a dog whining out in hopes to please his owner in an effort not to get the switch. “Just the way you like it, Trevor!”

“Black and hot? Well, gosh gee _whilikers_ , Ron, I’m glad you fuckin’ managed to remember that strenuous recipe.” Trevor snatched the mug, ignoring the liquid that sloshed over the side and added another stain to the numerous ones dotting his mattress. “Now that I’ve gotten my beauty sleep, update me on what’s been going on.”

Ron kept his eyes pointedly somewhere on the corner of the ceiling, and not on the way Trevor was sitting up, wide-legged and sans underwear, his dress hiked up somewhere around his hips now that he had fully sat up. “W-well, T.P.I. has been contacted about a new delivery of grenades and tear gas to the border, and Cletus came over yesterday at noon wondering if you would want to go out hunting this weekend.”

Trevor gulped down the scalding coffee, grunting and gesturing towards the side table; Ron fumbled, quickly snatching the cell phone charging there. Trevor swiped it from his trembling hands. “Anything else?”

“Oh….o-oh! Chef has a new batch in, he wants you to taste some of it.” Ron nervously scratched at his arm, warily offering, “A-and if you can’t, you know, I’d be willing to do it for you—“

Trevor’s eyes shot up from the screen of his phone. He had three missed calls from Franklin, and he jammed his finger over the call button as he lurched to his feet. His coffee mug crashed inches away from Ron’s head; he let out a shrill yelp, ducking for cover.

“Then go on and get to trying it, you junkie fuck! You’re the shittiest fuckin’ secretary this enterprise has got--!”

“Hello?” A voice answered on the other side.   

Ron scrambled out through the door, whether out of fear or the implicit promise of getting to taste the new product from the CEO’s voice himself, letting the screen swing shut with a bang.  Trevor immediately softened, leaning against the doorframe of his trailer with his phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, his hand idly scratching his broad chest. “Oh, _baby_. I told you, you can’t call me again, not after what you _did—_ what if _Ron_ finds out? But, _oh,_ what’re you wearing?”

Franklin scoffed over the line. “You such a weird fuckin’ dude, Trevor.” Three hours away in his home, Franklin was pacing in his living room. Chop slept soundly on his couch, though his ears rose somewhat at the raucous laughter that poured loud and high through the speaker of the phone.

“Aw, my chocolate cupcake, but _I’m_ not the one who called three times in a row.”

“One—that’s.” Frank sputtered, “Don’t call me chocolate cupcake, Jesus.” Franklin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe Lamar had a point. How the hell had he managed to get involved with these weird fucks was anyone’s guess. Few people started healthy relationships with friends by putting guns to their heads and forcing them to launch a car through a dealer’s front window. And then meeting _that_ crazy man’s even damn crazier friend. His pacing continued. “And two, it’s ‘cause I got an… idea, kinda. You dig?”

“Oh?” Trevor perked up, his thumb pausing over the lighter he was fighting with. He placed his pipe down onto the lap of his floral dress, holding the phone fully now. “Like a… job?”

“Yeah. Yeah, like a job. You listen to the radio or hear the news recently? They’re opening a casino up in Las Ventu-”

“I’m in.”

Franklin blanched. “What?”

On the other side of the line, Franklin could hear the clicking of a lighter. There was a few more moments of silence, and then a low, throaty groan from Trevor. “I _sssaaaaid_ ,” Franklin could imagine the white smoke pouring from his lips like dry ice in a haunted house tour; he glanced at the clock on his wall. 8:45 A.M. flashed bright red back at him. “I’m in. Whoo- _eee_ , you sure you don’t wanna get into the dope slingin’ business with Lamar, kid? This new shit I got is supposed to be _good_.”

“Nah, homie, but thanks for the offer. Now, you’re the first one I asked—“

“I’m _flattered,_ buttercup.”

“Yeah, well. We still need to bring it up to Lester, and Michael—“

Trevor bristled. “Michael? Why the fuck do we need that fat turd? He’d only slow us down, probably accidentally drown himself in a shallow fountain or impregnate _another_ stripper hooker while we’re trying to be _professionals_ \--”

Chop stirred awake as Franklin held the phone away from his face, in an effort to preserve his hearing as Trevor’s voice rose to a dull roar. He sighed, glancing over at the dog. Chop’s tail wiggled lazily.  “Yeah, it’s this shit again, li’l homie.”

Chop’s tail wiggled harder. Franklin took it as agreement, finally raising the phone back to his face.

“— _AND, I’D LIKE TO POINT OUT, MY COCK IS JUST AS LARGE, IF NOT LARGER, THAN TOWNLEY’S TINKERER—“_

“Trevor!” Franklin barked; surprisingly, the other side of the line fell silent, “Trevor, Jesus man, look! Hey! I get it. You two had some beef, but I thought we got that shit all ironed out after we, uh, took care of things?”

Trevor growled. “Yeah. Well. Some _things_ happened, some _unironing_ , if you will,” Franklin was not going to ask for elaboration. He plopped on the couch beside Chop, scratching the big-headed monster behind the ear; he craned his neck in an attempt to lick at his hand, managing to lap at the air instead. “ _And,_ besides, Townley won’t do another job. You know he won’t.”

Franklin sighed. “Look. You two—work out whatever beef you got. I’m gonna call Lester. And then I’ll convince Michael. Alright? You know y’all gotta work together. That’s—that’s just how we do things, y’know?”

On the other side, Trevor’s voice cracked slightly, strangely. “The unholy trinity.”

“That’s right, dog. You’ve forgiven him for worse.” Franklin replied, almost soothingly. “I’ll catch up to you, alright?”

“ _Yeah_.” Franklin didn’t even get to reply back with a goodbye before the line went dead. He sighed, hanging up and tossing his phone onto the coffee table. Chop took the opportunity as an excuse to squirm into Franklin’s lap; he chuckled, rubbing his hands into Chop’s short fur. His voice rose to an octave that only his dog had the pleasure of hearing.

“I must be just as fuckin’ crazy as they are, huh Chop? Glad you here to keep me sane, huh?”

Chop snuffled loudly into Franklin’s lap, rolling over onto his back, and promptly sneezed into his face.

\---

The phone only rang once before it was picked up.

“Le-“

“I already know.” His interruption was curt, “I’ve been looking into the Casino already. A couple million in cash prizes and some of the largest and clearest diamonds that have graced the town that haven’t been attached to a mobster wife’s finger are coming through.” There was furious typing on the other side. Lester snorted. “Though, it’s not actually the h _ope_ diamond; that’s a ridiculous ploy on the casino’s part. Any publicity is good publicity, I suppose-- and before you ask, no, I'm not fabricating historical society passes so you can get extra chips or whatever they're trying to ply idiots with. However, it is a bunch of diamonds arranged together to look suitably gigantic. A tacky Las Venturas style art exhibit, if you will. Which, is a bonus on our parts as the only people we could possibly sell the Hope diamond to would be the Chinese. And, well, Trevor’s name has traveled fast and he’s ruined _many_ ties there,” He finally paused, mumbling more to himself than Franklin under his breath: ”Crazy asshole.”

Franklin grunted, leaning back against his white Buffalo S, a hose in hand that was dribbling a steady stream of water. “Hello to you too, Lester.”

“I apologize,” Lester replied nasally, “Were you interested in work, or in chit-chatting about your lovely home life with a dog and picket fence and your hand?”

Franklin bristled, “And how the fuck you know I was asking around about the casino, huh?”

“Well,” There was an almost offended tone to his voice, “I hadn’t known you had been asking around. I’m going to make a guess and say it’s the usual suspects, though you should wait until I’ve formulated a plan before we go asking about any further players other than our usual assemblage of maladjustments.”

Franklin shook his head. “I got it, yeah, but how did you know I was gonna ask you?”

“Because I’m the only one you know smart enough to do it, and your internet and service provider isn’t particularly well-encrypted.”

The eye-roll was practically heard. “Well, cool. That’s fine, whatever, I didn’t want no privacy anyway. Look, you in? You think you can think of somethin’ good?”

“I do better than ‘good’. But yes.” A pause, “Trevor and Michael are on board?”

Franklin was idly hosing his car down, “Well… _kinda_.”

“Michael, of course?”

Strangely, the real problem child. Trevor was at least reliable in his want to commit criminal activity. "Yeah. Haven’t even asked him yet.”

There was silence between them. Franklin started to walk his hose back to the side of the garage. Lester cleared his throat. “We’re going to need to get Michael on board for this. Or… we can try to find another gunman. But I don’t know anyone with his same amount of skill—“ Lester hummed with irritation, adding as an aside, “Never tell him I said that, his head’s big enough as it is.” There was clicking on the other end, and suddenly Franklin’s phone vibrated. “Either way, I just sent you coordinates to where we’ll be meeting in a week, if things go to plan. Keep me updated.”

“’course. I’ll talk to you later.” They mutually hung up, and Franklin scrolled through his inbox. There was a blip marked off around the corner of Mirror Park Boulevard. He sighed, gripping the phone tight. Things were setting into motion.

\--

“A casino job?” Michael’s voice crackled over the phone. “What the fuck are we? Oceans 11?”

“Dog, if only. Look. Lester says it wasn’t a bad idea—“

“And besides,” Michael cut him off tersely, “I told you. I’m in retirement now, after that last job. I don’t got any debt, or crazy mob bosses to pay off, or government agencies I have to bend over backwards for.” Franklin could hear the sound of glass and ice clinking on the other end. He rolled his eyes, suppressing an annoyed sigh. “I’m in retirement, Frankie. Let me enjoy it.”

Franklin did not want to admit that Trevor was right, but he was barely three sentences past the polite, _“How you’ve been?”_ and already the retiree was digging in his heels.

“Like you enjoyed it so much last time.” He was pulling into his drive way now, and the garage slid open, allowing him to seamlessly pull inside and park.

“This time is different,” Michael grunted. “I’ve got you guys, y’know—fucked up people to go drinking with.” Of course, he had to add a little jab. “And ‘manda and I, we’re going pretty okay right now. Things are working out.”

Could he blame Michael? Hell, he was enjoying his nice new house, and a garage that opened by itself instead of having to push a rickety, rusted gate up by hand, and the pool, and the flat screen television. He liked to think he was different, though. In the distance, he could hear Chop barking. Probably heard him pull into the garage. “Yeah, working out. Something of that scale… it’s been almost 6 months since y’all’s ‘Big One’. You gotta be starting to meld into the couch by now.”

“Hah. Hah.” Michael deadpanned, “And I thought you said no more big jobs? That is was the same capitalism as Weston’s? I would’ve thought T would be the first one to pester me for another job, not you, kid.”

There was an accusatory tone in Michael’s voice that, strange even to himself, almost felt like shame to Franklin’s ears; his words stuttered out, “I mean, I… I don’t know. Shit. I thought I was done. I _felt_ done. Wasn’t ready for no more doing jobs and ain’t getting’ paid for them, or risking my skin for some of the dumb ass shit you two pull when we work together. But…”

He trailed off, a pregnant pause at the end. On the other side, Franklin could hear Michael’s measured breathing. He _knew_ that Michael knew the reason why. He knew, ever since that day Trevor mentioned _the big one_ and Michael got a glint to his eyes that made all of T’s drunken ramblings about the mystical, mourned Townley make sense. It was the thrill of the game. The feel of large wads of money in your hands—and even the monetary reward, though much appreciated, wasn’t the best part of it. It was doing big things, making grand gestures. The way the newscasters talked about it weeks afterward. They didn’t _have_ to mention his name for the sound of “three men, two middle-aged Caucasian and one African-American male in the largest heist of the decade” to send a lightning bolt down his spine. He felt _powerful_ , and strangely in control in a way he had never felt in his entire life.

Franklin was absolutely, entirely sure why he had reneged on his wanting out. He could admit it to himself. His hands flexed around the steering wheel of his Buffalo S. “Like you’ve never said a single hypocritical thing before.” He finally settled on, lamely.

Michael snorted in faint amusement. “Good ol’ ad hominem. Ask someone else. I’m out.”

“Besides,” Franklin added, somewhat wary. He didn’t understand Michael and Trevor’s relationship, though after enough drunken outings he had gotten snippets of slurred words and pointed looks that he had a vaugue enough understanding not to meddle too much. It was like asking how many bodies they totaled in the war; and _yet—_ “I don’t think T’s gonna be asking you for a job in a long while. You piss in his cheerios again?”

Michael’s voice rose exponentially, “I’ve _never_ pissed in that crazy fuck’s cheerios—“ And then, realizing how ridiculous he sounded, adding quickly, “Trevor never makes sense, you know that. He’s unbalanced, whatever he said, you know… just his weird verbal diarrhea.”

Franklin’s eyebrows were nearly touching his hairline. That was the line in the sand, and he wasn’t crossing it. He was less curious for curiosity’s sake, and more wanting them to get over all the name-calling bullshit so they could all make some money.

Michael filled the silence: “And it don’t matter what he thinks of me, ‘cause I’m not doing any more jobs.”

Franklin shook his head, finally stepping out of his car and slamming the door shut. He pocketed his keys. “I don’t know how you doin’ it, man.”

There was a pause. “Doing what?”

Franklin pushed open the door, stepping into the mudroom room. Chop was already impatiently waiting there, tail wagging. He barked once and pushed his nose up against Franklin’s palm, and he immediately started to pet him, though his attention was focused on the phone in his hands. “Y’know. Jumpin’ out of the game. Sitting around, all day, every day.”

“Well, that’s what I _like_. I’m not as young as you, kid. You’ll see when you get older.”

Franklin wanted to protest that he wasn’t a child anymore; and, he was almost damn certain that Michael didn’t really like to sit around and bake in the Los Santos son, not really.

But Michael cut him off, as if expecting more argument, “I’ll talk to you later—maybe after this big job of yours, you buy the drinks this time, huh?”

Frank muttered a goodbye in return as the line went dead. Chop flopped down heavily on Franklin’s feet, earning him a good-natured swear as the heavy dog rolled onto his back. Franklin hung up with a sigh. He glanced down; Chop’s nub of a tail wagged even harder, and he squirmed.

Franklin stared down at him. “Aw, come on! Get up, you silly ass motherfucker,” He grinned, giving Chop’s side a friendly slap. Chop barked, squirmed and got to his feet, feet scrambling over the tile as he jumped up and raced off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is mostly a set-up chapter! I didn't want to cram too much in, but next chapter we're getting into the thick of things and it should be coming relatively soon since I'm 99% finished with it. Thanks for reading, and comments and critiques always appreciated. :) Also special thanks to those who read over (space-kabob and stopnswop) before I published!


	2. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College, and flashbacks. Warning for suggestive themes this chapter.

Pink polka dot-print sheets nearly spilled out of the black egg-crate in Michael’s arms; he grunted as he piled a lamp on top of it, and then finally filled out his tower with a white photo box on top. That was all placed on top of a cardboard box, which Michael squatted down to lift with some measured amount of grunting. Around them, equally annoyed and tired looking parents were hefting similar loads, though the majority much more WASP-ier and thinner than they were.

“D _aaaaad_! Be careful!” Tracey chirped in sing-song as she brushed by him, arms over-burdened with clothes. “That lamp is, like, my favorite!”

“I’m bein’ careful, sweetie!” Michael called back, voice strained and the tendons of his neck flexing. _He was getting too old for this_. Though, admittedly he wasn’t the oldest parent here helping his child move into the dorms; there were more than a few trophy wives using their geriatric husband’s wheel-chairs as makeshift dollies.He was almost sure his own family would be doing the same if he was chair-bound. ( _Actually_ chair bound, not in the kind of way Amanda would taunt him about when he was parked on the couch and had the audacity to ask her to pass a bag of chips that was just out of reach.) Amanda was taking markedly lighter loads than he up to Tracey’s new dorm.

“If you pull a hernia because you’re trying to one-up all of the other dads here, I’m not helping you up.” She said dryly as she passed him.

Michael flashed her a tense grin, arm’s wobbling. “Thanks, _honey_.”

With the absence of Dr. Friedlander, Michael’s psychologically-bankrupt venting and evaluations had come to an abrupt stop; so, too, did the occasional family or couple’s counseling meetings they had previously. Things had been relatively smooth after the last big heist, and the offing of all of their collective enemies; he could sleep soundly knowing Westin had been eliminated after what he put his family through. That fucker _deserved_ it, no doubt. But it was a manufactured lull, the same type he felt 10 years ago after the botched heist up in snowy North Yankton and he slept in his beautiful San Andreas bed for the first time. Changes started to roll back; the wine rack and whiskey cabinet was replenished. Sure, they played tennis a bit more together, and they even did yoga together outside in front of the pool addition that had to be installed yet no one ever used.

Family life had gone on. It seemed the past few months of relative chaos had sparked change amongst not just him, but his children, and somehow, impossibly, it was all good. Instead of more visits to shrinks, they were blossoming in ways that had been unprecedented in years. (Neither Michael or Amanda wanted to entertain, or admit, that their children thrived similarly that they did when put through the ringer.) Tracey had started community college, and sure, she was absolutely terrible at it, if he wanted to be truthful—but then she kept studying, and kept talking about how she had wanted to go to a _real_ school, with, like, a sorority and stuff.

She got Cs and the occasional B, and wanted to get a business degree even though math came to her like a brick to the face. But how could they not encourage her to go off somewhere, when both he and Amanda had barely a high school degree shared in between them? The price was steep; Tracey couldn’t get any academic scholarships, had no inkling for sports ever since she hit puberty, and when she tried to gun for a singing scholarship, Michael deftly managed to distract her with a credit card and a prompting to treat herself, and the date of the try-outs was missed.

That left him with the tab. He wasn’t going to be applying for government financial aid,that was for sure. And though the excess of zeroes gave him heart palpitations, well…

Tracey passed him by, then did a double take, turning to grab the lamp from the top of his pile. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Be _careful_ , Dad. Geez.”

He was immensely proud of her. His little girl. Michael didn’t have much to be proud of, but he figured this was a good of a thing as any to hang his hat on.

He staggered through the hall, past other chattering and worried parents into Tracey’s new room. Despite the price of it, it looked akin to some of the prison cells Michael had spent his youth in, but somehow smaller and more poorly lit. Michael dropped the load in his arms heavily onto the ground. The photo box precariously balanced on top tumbled over, spilling open to allow a large pile of fluorescent condoms to fan out onto the concrete floor.

“Aw, Jesus Christ—Tracey!” Michael bellowed, pressing a hand to the side of his face, palm digging into his eye socket in a vain hope that the neon specter in front of him would vanish if he pressed hard enough. He whirled around as Tracey bounded through the doorway; her face faltered as her father gestured towards the floor, “What the hell, Trace-“

“Dad!” Her voice rung shrilly as she hurried over to scoop the packets back into the box. “I _told_ you to be careful, oh my _God_. You’re so embarrassing-!”

“Me? Embarrassing?! Me??” Michael’s voice rose, his gestures erratic. “What… what the hell are you doing with all of these?” His tone was barely contained fury, his hands fighting between the want to angrily point to the pile to grappling his hair. “You’re— Christ, you’re a little girl! I ain’t letti-“

Amanda breezed past Michael, a laundry basket in hand. “I gave them to her,” She carefully placed the bin on Tracey’s bed before squatting down next to her daughter to help her collect the rest of the contraceptives from off of the floor. Michael gestured in silent, furious shock at them as the lid closed shut. “Because we want our daughter,” Her gaze fixed herself on Tracey’s own flushed one, and then up to her husband, “Most of all, to be safe.”

“That’s why I bought her the fuckin’ pepper spray!” Michael sputtered, practically pulling out his hair. It wasn’t as if he didn’t _know_ , didn’t hear the strange noises from her bedroom he always ignored when pulling himself up the stairs to try and crash into bed after an all-day movie marathon. It’s not that he didn’t know the types of people she tried to keep and socialized herself with, the porn stars and the scummy reality television executives.

The flagrant display of it, worse than the short skirts mimicking a bad schoolgirl porno or the much too small underwear he saw in the laundry room when he ventured in there, begged his weak parenting skills into action. It felt like a personal slight.

“That’s why I can’t ever talk to you. You’re such a jerk!”    Tracey stomped out as Amanda carefully slipped the box up high on a built-in shelf next to her bed. Michael knew not to call after her; she had her combined parents temper. Besides, his true argument wasn’t with her.

“Yet again, Michael, parent of the year—“

“Oh, come on. You’re saying that now? To me?”

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “They’re _condoms_ , Michael, not drugs. Do _you_ want your daughter to get pregnant?” She snapped, keeping her voice relatively even with some effort. “Because nowadays, guys don’t marry the girls they knock up.”

Michael fell silent, fuming. A pall covered the room as he turned his back on his wife, facing Tracey’s bed. Another girl around Tracey’s age, assumedly her roommate, timidly stepped into the room to deposit some of her items on her bed. Amanda murmured a hello and a bright smile, and she did the same before darting out of the room.

Michael grabbed the nearest cardboard box, splitting the top open with an angry jerk and unpacking its contents with unnecessary roughness.

“Not- not that I want Trace pregnant—hell, I don’t wanna think about her in bed with some meathead frat boy even, unless she’s marryin’ him—but…”

Amanda crossed her arms, her eyes boring into the back of Michael’s skull. “And what? You think she won’t do it because she doesn’t have any? That doesn’t stop boys. Do you _want_ our daughter’s life ruined? After she’s gotten so far?”

“An unexpected baby ain’t a life ruiner. It’s tough, but it don’t _ruin_ things.”

She could see right through him; they had been together too long for any of that bullshit. “Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep at night?”

A makeup bag crunched sadly underneath Michael’s iron grip. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not playing games, Michael—this isn’t about _you_ , and if you won’t even pretend to be truthful I’m not going to explain for your benefit.”

Michael spun on his heel, nearly throwing the makeup bag clutched in his hands; at the last minute, he dropped it, grabbing Tracey’s childhood teddy and flinging it instead. Amanda flinched as it bounced off the wall near her head, “You fucking psychopath—“

“I don’t need you,” Michael growled, “Gettin’ emotional and crazy ‘cause our daughter is moving out, and I don’t need you patronizing me and stringin’ me up on the damn cross so you can tell our daughter to go fuck the football team!”

“Big fuckin’ words, Mr. Quarterback!” Amanda screamed. Michael threw up his words, turning to face Amanda as she circled him.

“What, what do you want me to say? I’m _sorry_ I ever met you, and we fell in love, and the fuckin’ condom broke! ‘cause you were _so_ planning on taking all of that stripping and _dick sucking_ money to go to fuckin’ college!”

Amanda shouted in frustration, her hands balling into fists. “You weren’t the one at home with two screaming babies and miles away from any other help, Michael! You were out gallivanting with Trevor Philips, doing lines with bills that should have been for _our_ children!”

 A cloud passed over Michael’s face; they both know it well. Michael liked to call this phase of the argument as him leaving to save himself from saying anything else, from getting nastier and harming his beautiful wife. Amanda saw it as Michael trying to save face when he knew he was backed into a corner. He stormed out of the dorm room, passing through a swarm of crunchy granola moms and golf champion dads who, by the looks on their faces, had heard enough to talk about later at country club meetings. Tracey was going to be furious.

Michael did what he was best at; he puttered around the markedly empty car, and read a newspaper with the air conditioning on, and tried not to stare behind sunglasses at some of the older looking college girls walking around, helping out the new freshmen. Eventually, Tracey and Amanda both came back. They attended the parent’s farewell, stiffly shoulder to shoulder, though they were pointed in hugging their daughter before she rushed off towards orientation.

“Stay safe, Trace!”

“Call us if you need anything, sweetie!”

Husband and wife drove back in a thick silence. Michael turned the radio on, but after a few songs Amanda tersely asked for him to shut it off and they were back to the quiet sound of the motor, the wind outside, and the occasional other car shooting past them on the freeway. Her leg bounced restlessly.

“So.” Michael bridged the gap of silence first. He could feel her eyes turn to him, even though he did not look over. “How long until Trace is callin’ us, asking us to bring her back?”

Amanda snorted, settling back in her seat. “If we’re lucky… she won’t.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I want my daughter to… be _happy_. You know… I want her to get into that sorority she wants. I want her to get swept up in it. I want her to forget to call us,” If Michael didn’t know better, Amanda’s voice was catching in her throat. “I want her to grow, Michael. You know?”

The steering wheel creaked under his idle flexings. “Course I do.” And then, “It’s gonna be weird with her gone, don’t you think?”

Amanda let out a shaky sigh, leaning an arm against the door and wiping carefully at her face. “I miss her already. But I’m so damn _proud_ of her.”

A little later, when Michael is pulling onto more familiar highways, he brought up a fond memory of Tracey when she was in third grade, stepping off the bus absolutely wailing because she had managed to get thick paste stuck in one of her blonde ponytails. Amanda parried with the time Tracey had lost that tooth, and Michael had nearly sprained an ankle sneaking out of the dark room and tripping spectacularly over a wayward toy unseen on the ground, but she had been so happy to tell them the next day about her dollar and she _swore_ she heard the tooth fairy leaving her bedroom. This started the trend for the rest of their car ride, quiet memories and laughter as street lights passed them by.

It was the most civilly they had talked in a while. A long while, Michael recalled guiltily. They pulled up in the driveway, and Amanda settled a hand over Michael’s on the clutch of the car.

“You know, Jimmy will be the next one, if we’re lucky.” She patted him, fondly. “And then maybe we’ll get that honeymoon period finally, huh?”

Michael murmured in faint agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. Once they were inside, and Amanda was off to bed, Michael sat himself in the walk-in closet of their bedroom, closing the door behind him. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a calculator, and a few files from a cabinet tucked away. He had always done the taxes and handling of the money; there was no simpler way to keep control on what was known about the money or where it came from than to throttle the information at the source. The fresh pen marks were from his earlier calculations and checkbook balancing of college payments.

He scratched out a few numbers. A low ballpark, pad of legal paper balanced on one knee, his fingers slowly swiping through his phone on the other. Bookmarking real estate listings, numbers of possible mortgage payments scrawled down. It was exactly what they needed. Amanda had been asking for updates to their current house, or a vacation house for a while. But what if he could shoot two birds with one stone; buy a vacation house that Jimmy could use until he got onto his feet. And then it would just be them, like it had been those few blissful months before the kids.

Michael underlined another string of numbers. The only problem; everything, as was natural in Los Santos, was coming up over-budget. Again and again, the estimations were spilling over. They could tighten their belts for a while, sure. That was _possible_. But neither of them, growing up in trailers and rented furniture and wonder bread peanut butter sandwiches, had the self-restraint or want to do so. He found his attention wandering on his phone, from the internet to his contacts. He needed more money. He _needed_ it.

His bouts of insomnia were immensely helpful on nights like these; it wasn’t until hours later that he was crawling into bed. His body, though always attracted to his wife’s, actually moved to act on the urge and he spooned her from behind. She stirred, momentarily, before settling back against him.

\---

_Months earlier_

Trevor kicked a rock over the cliff, watching the sun set. It was a gorgeous, picture perfect sunset, the kind that threw reds and purples and other colors Trevor didn’t have the words for over the ocean. Slap it on a postcard for Los Santos and sell it in a shitty Vespucci beach bodega for $1.99 good. Not that he had much of a choice in watching, though; Franklin and Michael had unceremoniously left him by the cliff side. Maybe it had just slipped their minds that he had arrived in the car they had just pushed over into the rocks below; the adrenaline right now was pumping through his veins enough that he had barely noticed they had left him stranded.

His hand twitched towards his phone. After hesitating for a brief moment, he pulled it out, swiping over to his last called and redialing.

The phone rang. Once, twice. Trevor scuffed his boots against the ground, digging the toe in to make indeterminate shapes. It went to voicemail.

“Ron here! The government is listening…”

Trevor glanced up, the sound of car tires crunching over gravel catching his ear. A black Tailgater pulled up and smoothly around him. The window lowered, and like some damn Hollywood movie Trevor was left a little slack jawed, and a lot tighter of pants, as Michael leaned out the window. He slid his shades down, just enough that he could gaze up and over them.

Trevor fumbled with his phone, canceling the voicemail. Michael cleared his throat. The sun was setting in a way that made this look like the end of those terrible 80s teen movies Michael pestered him to watch all the time back in North Yankton. “I. Uh, sorry, T. Didn’t mean to leave you here.”

He quashed the weird feeling in his gut with a snort, pushed it down low. “Whatever, pork chop.” He walked over to the passenger side and pulled the door open.

The ride back was strangely quiet, save for the low hum of the radio in the background, and the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Trevor wiped his clammy palms with insistent purpose down the thighs of his sweats, gripping the loose fabric as he got to the knees.

“What… what a fuckin’ ride, huhn?” Michael said, almost as if to no one in particular, staring pointedly at the road ahead. The only sound to meet his words was the drone of Los Santos Rock in the background. Trevor glanced up into the rear-view mirror. Michael’s pupils were blown.

Outside, the forests of Blaine County were turning into Trevor’s well-known and beloved desert. The sun was setting. Hours ago he had put a bullet through Steve Haines cranium mid-film on top of the Ferris wheel. Michael had swung his bat through a three-bit gangster’s head like rotten fruit. Franklin has thrown one sticky bomb with the arm of a pitcher and the accuracy of a sniper, blowing Wei Cheng and the rest of the Triads to a sticky, smoldering paste on the asphalt. It hadn’t been a heist; they had been assassinations, or murders, depending on how highly one thought of themselves and the act of vigilante killings.

There was a palpable heaviness to the air. Trevor opened the window, immediately sticking his head outside like a dog; the wind roared in his ears, and he closed his eyes as it buffeted his face. The sky was slowly starting to melt down, the purples darkening to blues and blacks. He sucked in a long breath before ducking back into the car.

Michael was still talking; how long had he been in that low, nervous voice, Trevor couldn’t tell. “I mean… Christ. We got away with it. Well, for now. In a few hours we might get Merryweather and co. knockin’ at our doors.”

Trevor glanced over at Michael. His hair was slicked back, wet with perspiration; Trevor drummed fingers loudly against the car door.

“We could die.” Michael’s eyes met Trevor’s in the rearview mirror. “Not that that’s anything new for you, huh?”

“Jesus, Mikey, do you ever shut the fuck up unless there’s a gun or a dick in your hands?” Trevor ground out between clenched teeth.

They pulled up and into Trevor’s dirt driveway much too fast, Michael’s tires screeching and their bodies jerking forward. Trevor took the momentum and went with it, hauling himself up and over the center console into Michael’s seat to grab the other man by the front lapels of his leather jacket and force his mouth onto his.

Michael, less than gracefully, acquiesced, fisting a meaty hand into the front of Trevor’s tee shirt and pulling him forward. Their teeth clacked together; someone moaned, though neither wanted to own up to it as Trevor forced his tongue into Michael’s mouth—

The car rolled forward suddenly. Michael disentangled himself with a grunt, grabbing for the gears and finally shifting it into park. Half of Trevor’s body was still in the passenger’s seat, a muddy boot against the door. He reached and grabbed for the handle of Michael’s door, pushing the door roughly open. There was a strong undercurrent of near-panic in his movements, hands fumbling with the handle, as if he was fit to burst if he didn’t get Michael in his trailer, he would never be fucked again in his entire life.

A familiar bucket hat poked its way from out the open window of the neighboring trailer, first hesitantly, than fully emerging at the realization of who it was. Ron looked relieved. “T-Trevor! You’re back—I didn’t expect—“

“Fuck off, Ron!” He roared, pulling back to exit through his side of the car. Ron gave the scene one look; the red-faced loafer wearing fuck in the front seat, and Trevor’s erection bobbing angrily in threadbare sweatpants, and he immediately ducked back into his trailer. Trevor didn’t wait to even see if Ron had listened (though, like always, it was assumed,) instead stalking around the car to grab Michael and haul him out via his shirt and their connected mouths.

They were a barely contained tornado; Michael’s broad shoulders forced the front door open, and it was a wayward kick from Trevor’s boot that sent it clattering back closed against the frame. Trevor was ravenous. This was it, this was _it_ , this was Michael-fucking-Townley in the flesh. They hadn’t touched like this since Patricia was here, and he drank from his lips the desert sucking up the waves of the Alamo Sea. His hands pushed up and under Michael’s shirt, ghosting up his sides in a way that caused him to shudder.

Trevor chuckled hotly against his mouth, but it quickly melted into a moan.“I’m gonna- yer gonna- _Christ_ , Mikey, you need to get your fuckin’ clothes off right _now_ and into my fuckin’ _bed_ —“ Trevor growled against his mouth in between kisses, catching the other man’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Michael’s hands jolted, settled on Trevor’s chest as the other man moved across from his lips and trailed to his neck. “Wait,” His voice came out in a broken warble; Trevor bit down on warm flesh, brought it into his mouth to suck and tongue the pulse fluttering like a caged bird underneath his ministrations.

“Trevor—” His body heaved underneath his hands. Trevor roughly pushed Michael towards the couch, giving him one hard shove to send him collapsing back against the rickety frame. Trevor was kneeling in between Michael’s legs, his hands shooting for the zipper of his trousers. “ _T—_ hold up. ”

He stopped, looking up. He wanted to eat Michael whole, his wet lips, his wide eyes. Trevor’s hand settled down over the front of Michael’s pants, voraciously pleased to feel an ever-growing wet spot of pre-cum underneath his rocking palm. “Yeah, M?”

Michael’s entire body shuddered, and he let his head slump back momentarily. “Oh… Jesus. No, fuck. No, T.”

Trevor watched, warily, as Michael righted his head, focused his eyes on his with a determined clarity.

“We can’t do this. Look, Trev, it’s just... Like I said back there. We’re flawed, awful friends.”

Trevor’s face screwed up in confusion. He couldn’t be—

Michael’s hands wrapped, sickeningly gentle, around Trevor’s wrists. Lifted them up. “We can’t… ” His voice was soothing; Trevor was sure he had heard him use that same tone back in North Yankton when trying to deny Tracey a toy, “What happened, when Amanda was gone, an’ I had to camp out here for a bit... I made a mistake, an honest mistake. But we can’t do that anymore. We have,” Michael’s words hesitated as Trevor’s hands curled into fists, his breathing suddenly going ragged; it was almost as if Michael _feared_ him, feared what he might do. The fucking gall of that snake-bastard, the self-centered gall to be _afraid_ of him.

Trevor couldn’t do anything. As much as he wanted to. As much as he had the right to strike him down for all of his sins. Trevor was never Michael’s judge or jury.

“We have,” Michael began again, his voice softening. “To go back to just being friends. We can’t do this anymore, T.”

The edges of his vision darkened, the volume of his voice rising high and fast. “ _We_ haven’t been FRIENDS since the night in ’89 when you jammed your fuckin’ COCK down my throat in the back of a bar alleyway—“

He ripped himself violently from Michael’s grasp, Michael recoiling in turn, his voice rising. “We haven’t been FRIENDS since you became a back-stabbin’ SNAKE and KILLED BRAD for your own shitty self and your SHITTY FAKE-TITTED WIFE—“

That got the exact reaction Trevor was hoping for, Michael leaping to his feet as he threw a wild punch. The ultra-violence of being struck down by the man who moments before had been looking as if he was going to stroke his face and stroke his cock and whisper shitty movie quotes in his ear sent him to the floor. (And maybe, the pain splitting up his skull felt more natural than the thought of anything as soft as that coming from Michael Townley.) He fell, hard, the peeling linoleum of his filthy kitchen trailer floor coolly comforting against his cheek.

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about my wife like that, Trevor, we--- we’ve only, _only_ ever been fucking friends, you got that?!”

Trevor laughed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Deny whatever the fuck you want. We were _brothers_ , you piece of shit.” Michael didn’t reply, but he didn’t move, either. When Trevor finally opened his eyes, Michael was still standing above him, fingers flexing into fists. “Why did you come back, anyway? I could have gotten a ride back. I have _friends_ , Michael, friends other than, and much better than, _you_.”

There was silence. It was damning. Trevor heaved himself, his hands flat against the ground. Michael wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t know.” Michael ground out, focusing intently on a pin-up poster of a spread-eagle girl in the corner of the room. “I felt bad that we forgot about you.”

He said it so breezily, as if it hadn’t knocked the breath right out of Trevor like a punch to the gut.

After finding him alive, ten years and a tattoo later, Trevor had managed to forgive him. How _couldn’t_ he, when they found themselves stuck in his tiny, stinking shack with Patricia Madrazo cleaning and clucking her tongue after them. Only a few days in and Michael had said he felt itchy, that he had to get out of here, and he couldn’t stand another day between Trevor shitting with the door open and his paranoid friend glaring at him between parted blinds. And the nights had been so _hot_. So sticky. Sweat slipped down their spines and soaked their shirts, and while Trevor didn’t mind the heat, enjoyed the cleansing way he felt when it was so hot his eyeballs were boiling, Michael was soft. A big, soft sissy-mary, sitting outside drunk under the stars in a rat-infested recliner in hopes to capture some semblance of breeze that happened to blow by.

Ten years had passed, and a tattoo, and a good amount of hair between them, but Trevor still seemed to slot so easily into Michael’s lap. Michael cradled the back of T’s head, and they fucked like lovers did, if Trevor even knew how that felt like—but it was the soft, slow motions he’d seen in movies, where even the crass noises of sweaty skin still sounded polite surrounded by the shrill howls of coyotes and the occasional rumble of far-off dune buggies and four wheelers.

Michael was drunk. Trevor was high. It just _happened_. And kept happening, and sometimes it was like that night, and sometimes it wasn’t, and there were nights where they both said dumb shit thinking the bare mattress would swallow words up like it did any other stain. Things just kept happening, up and until he left, and then after, though he did mumble a protest once that Trevor wouldn’t hear.

And then _Brad_ happened. His corpse staring up at him, and still wearing that idiotic shark tooth necklace of his. He knew Michael was going to point a gun on him before he even did; Trevor wasn’t stupid, and ten years later (after a tattoo, and a lot of self-medicating hard drugs) he noted the way Michael rolled his thick neck and the twitch of his fingers, and suddenly his own hands were clenching around a revolver that hadn’t been loaded. The hammer would have fallen on an empty chamber. It had been in his plane, his hands trembling so bad he was muttering to himself shitty jokes about the meth having finally gotten his nerves and being such a worthless shit stain of a human being. The twitches of his weary, cold-worn fingers jerked the bullets right out. If he hadn’t removed the bullets, God only knew what would have occurred; would he had shot him? Finally given into the shrieking in his head, that final push over the edge?

He had thrown the gun instead. Michael wronged him. He had been sending letters to some government fuck for the better part of ten years. And maybe he had wronged Michael in turn, leaving him there and going on a bender which ended with him waking up bleary eyed in the corpse of his dismantled couch and Franklin’s voice on his phone: _“Yo, man, the other day. I’m sorry I laughed but we gotta figure out a way to get Michael out. I know you ain’t gonna let him die. Call me back.”_

He had tried to convince himself he was going to kill Michael, after that initial lapse of judgement prior to Michael getting kidnapped. He began stalking him like prey, following his movements. When he saw him, in the flesh and not as a threatened Chinese accent over the phone, cornered like a rat between Merryweather and the FIB, Trevor leapt into action. He couldn’t stand by. He shot down every one of them.

Trevor pushed himself with some effort to his feet, his ears ringing, “I’m glad I can serve penance for your skunked soul, you fat, fake, _fuck_.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. I was being _nice.”_ Michael was adjusting his coat, already making his way to the door even as Trevor stalked him on his heels, _“_ I don’t need fuckin’ penance for shit.”

“Jesus, Mikey, because you’re _sooOOoo_ kind, just a more portly Mother Theresa over here!” He threw up his arms, following Michael out of the trailer. “Not like you didn’t just bludgeon some two-bit gang-banger to death a few hours ago with a baseball bat, but _no_ , allow me to kiss the great Michael De Suck-a-dick’s ass!”

Michael twisted around to face him, shoulders shaking from anger. “I don’t know why you’re so god damn angry, Trevor! I chose my family over you. You’re always on my ass about bein’ less of a lying fuckin’ snake, and here I am,” He gestured down at himself, in his nearly-sex rumpled clothes, and the ungainly wet spot on his crotch slowly drying like a sad testament to Michael’s dwindling will-power, “Choosing them first, tellin’ _you_ the truth, and being truthful to my wife.”

Trevor threw up violent jazz hands, hissing, “So glad you grew that conscience after you stuck your tongue down my throat then, porkchop!”

Watching the two of them fight, Ron peaked between the well-worn blinds of his trailer; he could hear their muffled shouts, though not distinct words, as they peacocked around the front lawn. Michael pressed a finger to Trevor’s chest, practically spat in his face, and in an angry huff entered his vehicle to loud shouts of, “YOU FUCKIN’ TURD!!” The tires of his car squealed as he backed out sharply, driving away in a cloud of dust and rocks.

Ron winced away from the window, loathing the thought of Trevor catching him spying on them. He was probably going to be called over soon; if Wade was here, he would be trying to hide the boy from Trevor’s tumultuous wrath. But right now, they were in the eye of the storm; Trevor was focused ahead, stomping up the porch. The first thing he did was pack himself a bowl and smoke it so fast it sends him wheezing like a high schooler on his first blunt behind the dumpsters. The second, his brain starting to swell and buzz, forehead beading with perspiration, was to grab the ring soaked in gasoline and breathe in until the lights all went out.

 

 

Mrs. Phillips came, though that wasn’t the name he used for her. It was Mother-- and not just _his_ mother, but Mother without need for pronoun, capital M, his one and only, Mary and Magdalene rolled into one. The word fell out of his mouth, rolled off of his tongue and fell wetly to the floor. _Mother_. Trevor fell to his knees, prostrate in front of the shrine of her, almost immediately taken by the smell of her perfume like incense. Her magenta pants swam into his vision, blanketed his eyes. The edges of his reality were cracking; his body heaved, and he nearly whited out right there, if he wasn’t struck with the sudden notion of being _needed._ It was so novel, to be needed by someone who mattered, even though he keenly felt he was soon to disappoint, again. (Always.)

His mother needed him, now, and Trevor scrambled to pacify her. Money? He had no care for money, but then again, neither did she. It was drugs that she was gunning for, to end her pain. Like mother, like son. Trevor had only one goal: find enough Deleudamol to make her happy. A convenience store’s worth? No, not enough, and not enough room in his arms to carry them all out. A cargo-load? Too large, and would take too long to acquire.

A truck worked perfectly fine. There was a Dollar Pills store in Sandy Shores, not far from his trailer. Trevor peeled out of his makeshift garage in his red Bodhi, and waited around the side of the pharmacy chain like a starving dog for meat until a van made its usual three P.M. delivery. His body operated on instinct, an automaton; the driver of the van made little noise before Trevor reached over with flexing fingers and pulled him out of the vehicle by his neck. They didn’t fight him. Plenty of Deleudamol got stolen in Blaine County, and most people in the area recognized Trevor Philips.

He drove with abandon; his tires lurched over the body of more than a few wayward coyotes as he peeled his way down the dusty roads. His mother. Mother, _mother_. Mother _needed him_. He wasn’t caught up in the specifics of it, such as why she had manage to appear like a ghost of Christmas past, or how she had known where he had moved to in the first place. Wasn’t particularly caught up with the notion of her own mortality. He was needed, absolutely.

“MA!” Trevor was screaming before he even stumbled out of the van; his foot caught in the slack seatbelt, and he fell to the ground, only to spring back to his feet.

_I’ve always wanted a gay son. A son who wouldn’t forget about his mother—_

She had said that before, in the past. He couldn’t remember when; maybe it was that time she caught him in one of her dresses, or after the clarinet incident, or during one of the many times he visited her in jail. Regardless of the time period, Trevor didn’t know much about the logistics of it, why her glare became withering when she swore she smelled another woman’s perfume on his collar. He almost stumbled once more up the steps, going for the door. She had unlocked it; and for just a split second, he hesitated to twist the handle. The initial sight of her, the span of her hips, and the bright red of her nails, had almost sent him into convulsions.

But she was his mother. The hesitation sent waves of shame washing over him, as momentary as they were, and as if to make up for it her burst into the trailer, the door nearly breaking off the hinges as it hit the wall. “ _Mom—!_ I got the meds, mom!“

His words caught in his throat. There was nobody here; there wasn’t even any warmth to the couch, a wayward strand of red hair shed. Nothing. His legs locked; he fell, and not that Trevor was ever one to reel himself in on behalf of others. But this, this was raw, personal wailing, the kind of self-indulgent sadness that he rarely experienced at this age but when it hit him, the dogs were wailing and Ron stayed far from his trailer as if it carried the plague.

When the noises died down, Ron pulled his hat tight over his head, worried the brim between his fingers and worked up what little self-confidence and bravery he had left to wander timid into the lion’s den. He hadn’t realized, but the silence was more terrifying than the howling would ever be in the end.

As a proud employee and CEO of Trevor Philips Incorporated—and as Trevor’s best friend—he was diligent in picking Trevor off of the floor. He was practically comatose in his arms (save for the moment he accidentally moved his hand too close to his mouth and Trevor bit at him suddenly.) when Ron struggled under the other man’s weight to ease him up onto the couch. He fetched Trevor his pipe, packed a bowl of meth, and patiently held the mouthpiece up to Trevor’s lips to smoke like a mother bird feeding her young.

Trevor, eventually, bounced back a week later, through the sheer tenacity of his body’s will to keep going. Ron swore that Trevor was almost like how he had been, before the whole San Andreas mess; he wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long chapter, (a part of this was supposed to be in the first chapter, gg me) and thank you for reading! Crits always welcome. Also ya'll are amazing and I'm so appreciative to those who took the time to comment or send kudos or whatever for last chapter, it's such a small dumb thing but it does keep me going so thanks. :)


	3. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franklin threw up his hands, turning around to walk a few paces away from the two. “He’s a dog.”
> 
> Lamar frowned, “Al’ight, first of all—you rude.” He proceeded to place a hand on Chop’s head; the dog glanced up, confused.

Franklin sighed, looking down at the large dog currently sprawled on his bed.

“Look, li’l homie—“

At the mention of his name, Chop’s entire body squirmed with excitement.

“I ain’t bringin’ you to Las Venturas. That’s dangerous shit. I appreciate you, dog, but I can’t do it. I mean,” He paused to wander into his closet, grabbing a shirt off the rack to neatly fold and then place on the bed next to Chop, and the duffel bag he was crushing underneath. “I’d like for you to be another crew member, don’t get me wrong. But what the hell would you be able to do?”

Chop wiggled expectantly, letting out a bark. Franklin gave his head a rub before wandering back to the closet, idly voicing his concerns out loud. Sure, maybe he was just one man in a big-ass overpriced house all alone. A man had needs; as much as he disliked his Aunt, at least she had talked to him on occasion back when he lived with her, even if it was only in berating, snappy complaints.

The silence was what got to Franklin the most. Back in his old neighborhood, there was always life; and no, it wasn’t easiest to sleep when he heard drunken shouts from outside, or police sirens. But there was also people; generally he could walk down the street, go to a store and manage to run into at least two people he could wave and have a quick chat with. But the nicer the neighborhood, the more desolate the streets; he supposed rich people paid not to talk to one another, unless it was through a carefully orchestrated outing of golf or tennis. When Franklin did manage to find his neighbors during the sparse moments between home and car, they barely replied with more than a curt wave in return.

Chop was just as fine of a sound board for his thoughts as anyone else could, with the added bonus of always replying in the right way. “You ain’t got thumbs, so let’s take gunman out of the picture. We can’t have you biting people on the front lines, they’d shoot your dumb ass…”

Franklin threw a couple of bundled socks over his shoulder onto the bed; Chop immediately took to gnawing on one. “Or T would throw a grenade and you’d go after it, bring that shit back.”

As jokingly as he said that, the thought made his stomach churn; he _had_ gotten attached to Chop, despite the fact that he wasn’t even in his dog. “But, we need someone else. A gunman, y’know? Maybe you could drive the getaway. I’m sure you’d be better behind the wheel than T ever is. Even without the whole thumbs thing.” They had a list of gunmen and drivers on reserve, ones they used often. There was Packie McCreary, an Irishman from New York that Trevor had met after he had robbed a store and the driver had skipped out on him; of course, like some criminal angel from above, T had pulled up next to the two quarreling thieves, engine revving, and outran the cops like it was no ones business. The man had proved his mettle in previous heists, and Lester could confirm his credentials via Liberty Tree paper clippings. Taliana Martinez was a drive of theirs; Franklin had been the one to find her, pulling over to the side of the road as all the other cars drove past the wreckage without a moment’s thought. It had just seemed like the right thing to do, and she had turned out to be more than competent behind the wheel.

“We figure something out, alright?” Franklin mumbled, before turning around. His face immediately clouded, “Naw, Chop, drop those socks—“

The Rottweiler immediately clamped down on one of the rolled balls of socks and struggled to sit up fully as Franklin jumped onto the bed, going for his jaws, “I said drop those socks you slobbering dumb ass—“

After a bit of wrestling, fake growing on Franklin’s part, and sheer tenacity on Chop’s, the socks were wrangled from their fate as indigestion and a thousand dollar bill from the veterinarian; Franklin threw him into his suitcase and pat the panting dog’s flank. It turned rhythmic as his mind trailed off into thought. He gave Chop a few last pats, moving off the bed to reach for his phone.

\--

“Oh, great. We _still_ have gangbangers hanging around—“

Amanda muttered, just low enough that Franklin would had to have asked for her to repeat herself to make sure. The meaning was still there, in her sour expression barely hidden under her oversized sunglasses.

“Hi, honey,” Michael said, a little too loud, his voice edging on the threshold of sticky sweet. He stepped in front of Franklin, and coincidentally right in front of Amanda’s sun.

“Hi, Mrs. De Santa.” Franklin mumbled.

Amanda’s face softened; she glanced over her glasses, arranging her body across the chaise lounge. “Please, like I said, Franklin, call me Amanda.” Her gaze focused back on Michael. Her brow creased. “Hi, _honey_. What are you two up to?”

“Ah, you know. Just going out with Frank here. Guy stuff.” He said, completely unconvincing as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the enigmatic direction of ‘out’. Out could mean going out drinking, to a bar. Amanda didn’t entirely mind that, though she was sure Michael drove home drunk often, as long as he didn’t total the car. But going out could also mean picking up Trevor somewhere along the way, strip clubs and shooting practice.

She glanced down at her phone, the majority of her facial features hidden behind too-large sunglasses. “Should I expect you home for dinner, or can we get two pizzas instead of three?”

Michael’s face twitched at the underhanded jab. He started to turn away, motioning with a roll of his shoulders towards Franklin to follow. “Two’s fine. C’mon, Frank.”

The car ride was uneventful. Michael wasn’t a bad driver, per se, but he wasn’t the best, and he wasn’t at his own level. (Though, in another time, another place, Franklin reckoned his childhood dream of a racecar driver might have actually come to fruition if he had the means.) Whenever they got together, Michael insisted on driving most of the time. He considered it one of those weird things Michael did, along with his self-depreciating pity parties, his love of really shitty film, and always calling him son and making strange life metaphors.

Michael spins the wheel easily with the palm of his hand. “You here to try and convince me to come on board?” He grunts, then adds with faux-enthusiasm, gesturing for emphasis, “The last one for real, this time! The big, big one!”

Frank sighed, giving a wayward glance towards Michael. “Look, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, for one. Two, can’t a guy want to meet up for drinks without some ulterior motive bullshit?”

Michael snorted, “Yeah… but, are we those guys?”

“Shit. I ain’t _you_ , man.” Franklin said, his tone deceptively even and his eyes straightforward as Michael glanced away from the road in something that could be perceived as mildly wounded. Franklin glanced down at his hands, where he was idly scrolling through his phone. “I just wanted to catch up, is all. Not talk about work. At least, not work like that. I heard you doin’ well with your executive-producer job.”

Michael immediately seemed to ease up, the tendons in his neck loosening. “Yeah, well, I’m helping Solomon do some things.” Things amounted to taking care of the seedier aspects of the film world of Richards, and occasionally adding his input on the film itself. He didn’t think much that his job as producer amounted mostly to grunt work, hauling starlets with white noses to set, or bullying an overpaid actor into taking slightly less so they could stay under budget. “We’re thinking about, uh,” He glanced over at Franklin, to double-check that he was paying rapt attention, the car slowing to a stop at the light, “A sequel to one of his classics, _Nelson in Naples_. Kind of a reboot, y’know? Except, Horatio Nelson is in our time, instead of his own, and we’re trying to reel in this big teen star whose lookin’ to revamp their image for the female love interest part.”

Franklin nodded, “That’s cool, man. Will I get a ticket for the premiere this time?” He gave Michael a nudge with his gentle ribbing, who chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah, hopefully, I can try and get one for you and a friend.”

Franklin watched Michael’s face in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, me and a girl, or Lamar… maybe T too, huh?” It was a carefully planted sentence; it flowered into a look of cross irritation on Michael’s face, and a slight jerk as Michael turned much too sharply for the road they were on.

“Yeah, well, what about T? He’s not asking me for anything. I’m too much of a snake for him, crazy asshole.” Their eyes meet momentarily in the rearview mirror. “Besides, I wouldn’t bring him if he asked. He would arrive in some shitty stained t-shirt and try n’ molest the stars on the red carpet. No fuckin’ _thanks,_ I ain’t putting my reputation on the line for that psychopathic asshole.”

It was strange, but even after the relatively short amount of time he’s known his so-called self-proclaimed adoptive fathers, he knows their tells. Maybe it’s because he liked to keep himself mostly quiet and watch how badly they could make asses of themselves when they’re together, but Michael was currently all rolling necks and flared nostrils like an enraged bull; Franklin was the matador in this mess, but he doesn’t want him to see the man behind the curtain. Only the red. “You think T would be that bad? Even if he knew it meant somethin’ to you?”

The leather of the steering wheel creaks under Michael’s knuckles. “Oh, you _betcha_. He would probably go out of his way to fuck me over. That’s what Trevor does, Frank. Fucks people over.”

As soon as the words leave Michael’s lips, they hang heavy in the air, suspended on their hypocritical wings. The engine rumbled in the background, along with the dull drone of the radio turned down low. They’ve fallen silent.

Franklin doesn’t assume much; he doesn’t judge, either, to be honest. He was an opportunist, through and through, and through those two weird, old white dudes, he has found a strange niche to fill. A niche that was, at times, uncomfortable, and totally flawed.

They pull a little too fast into a parking space next to their favorite bar; Franklin jerks forward. He recognized the sharp motion at the same time he recognized the arm thrown across his chest.

Michael clears his throat, and pulls his arm back to his side. Franklin busies himself in unbuckling his seatbelt and going for the handle as soon as possible.

“I’ll buy the first round,” Michael finally offered, with Franklin halfway out the door. Frank stopped, glancing over his at Michael; he looked nervous, and he hadn’t taken his one hand off the wheel. Franklin’s smile was thin.

“Yeah, sure thing, homie.”

\--

A week later, Franklin pulled his car into a faux-50s diner parking lot off of the Senora freeway. This was where they were to meet, one last time, before heading out to Venturas. There were three cars in the lot; one, Trevor’s bright red Bodhi, with the man himself sitting on the hood, a second van he assumed to be Lester, and a third.

But it wasn’t Michael’s; a fat canine face pressed against the window of the white Speedo, his tongue swirling thick over the van’s glass.

“How the fuck—“ He swore under his breath, his hands jerking over the wheel as he pulled much too sharply into the parking space next to Trevor’s Bodhi. The car sat diagonal in the space as Trevor slid off the hood of his car to give Frank a wave; he ignored Trevor in favor of storming over to the van, the one with the license plate that read LAMAR G.

“Lamar!”

Chop barked in excitement. Franklin watched Lamar take his sweet ass time rolling his window down, and leaning out. “Yeah?”

Franklin felt his blood pressure raise. _Yeah?_ He didn’t notice the slightly nervous tinge to his words, but his usual false bravado and the way he seemed awfully relaxed, bringing along Chop and dropping in on heist meetings unannounced. “Yeah? _Yeah?_ Nigga that all you gotta say, is _yeah?”_

Trevor whistled off to the side, like a child instigating a schoolyard fight, and the noise dissolved into a mirthful coughing fit when Franklin whipped his head over to glare at him.

“Look, Franklin, shit—“ Lamar opened the door, stepping out, “Hey, c’mon—“

He wasn’t having any of it; as Lamar stepped forward, Franklin took two steps back. Lamar stopped. Franklin held out his arms, “The fuck, man?”

“Look, I came over to get Chop, we was gonna ride around,” Lamar offered quickly, as apologetically as Lamar Davis possibly could, “And I came over and li’l homie was dropping a big ass deuce. I ain’t a rude motherfucker, I’m not gonna be hurryin’ this dog up, no nigga wants to be rushed takin’ a shit.”

Off to the side, Trevor had his arms crossed; he seemed to be nodding in agreement. Lester, meanwhile still in his van, just looked disinterestedly irritated. Neither seem to be helping Franklin’s temper.

“And so I was like just hangin’ around, ‘cause I told Chop to get me when he was done—“

Franklin threw up his hands, turning around to walk a few paces away from the two. “He’s a _dog_.”

Lamar frowned, “Al’ight, first of all—you _rude_.” He proceeded to place a hand on Chop’s head; the dog glanced up, confused. “And second of all, I ain’t gonna watch my dog take a shit, and I figure he’ll come when he wanna come. Look, I ain’t gotta explain myself to you, I’m just sayin’ nigga, I’m just sayin’, I was getting Chop. And I got bored waiting for him to wrap it up so, I logged onto your computer, figure I check the news or the game scores from last night.”

Franklin smoothed a hand over his face, and then dragged it up and over his head in exasperation. “And how the fuck you know my computer password?”

“Family forever 88.” Lamar and Trevor said in unison.

Franklin’s hands were back up in the air; he gave up. He was giving up, right here, right now. “Are y’all _fuckin’ serious--!”_

Lester sniffed loudly, “I thought this was common knowledge?”

Trevor shrugged, rubbing idly at his face. “Ain’t our fault you’re easy to read, Frankie-boy.”

“Anyway,” Lamar continued, “I just saw from your fruit-messages, dog, that you were meeting T here for a job. Ain’t my fault you upgraded to that fancy-ass new phone and all that fruit-bowl cloud shit.”

“So it my fault you broke into my house, bothered my dog while he was takin’ a shit, and hacked a nigga’s computer?” Franklin’s voice rose as he circled Lamar and Chop. (Lester looked vaguely annoyed at the use of hack in that context, faux-muttering a, “Any day now, ladies.”)

Lamar stepped forward, grabbing Franklin’s arm; the shorter man looked ready to rip him in two, but he stopped from pulling away from his grip, his face dark. “Yo, okay, look, dog. I’m sorry. But… _c’mon_.” He squeezed Franklin’s arm slightly, “You ain’t _ever_ tell me about your crusty old white dude jobs.” Though his voice was mostly annoyed bravado, there was a tinge of hurt to it that Franklin could read behind his words, having known Lamar for so long; Franklin’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. Lamar’s hand gripped Franklin’s arm just a bit tighter. “I thought we was in this together? And ya’ll even need another nigga on the job, and didn’t think of asking me?”

Franklin shook his head, heaving out a long-lasting sigh. “Aw, it ain’t like that, dog, you know that.” He glanced over at Lester and Trevor, for backup; Lester was on his phone, and Trevor simply shrugged. He wasn’t getting out of this. Nobody was going to agree with him, say _Of course, Frank, Lamar oughta stay home, so his dumb lanky ass don’t get himself killed and then you gotta take his ashes back in a Cluckin’ Bell 40 ounce to his mom after all these damn years._

Lamar was always a head taller than him and a half year older than him, and yet Franklin was always the protector. They had grown up together in Los Santos, and they hung around the same circuits of friends and rough housers. They only really became friends, only _really_ met in high school, when Lamar got his ass handed to him after stepping in front of a particularly nasty set of boys that were a few salty words away from beating Franklin into a pulp. Afterwards, they skipped class in favor of sharing a few cigarettes and a bottle of Mad Dog, and ended up loitering in the back of a parking lot shooting the shit. They caused trouble together, they complained about their guardians, they committed a little bit of petty crime; they had those same big aspirations of following the near-mythos of Grove Street gang members of the 90s. They were supposed to make it _big_.

At least, one of them did. _Big dog, big nuts—_ Franklin knew his friend inside and out. Was he as capable of a shooter or driver as any of these guys? Probably not. _Definitely_ not. And yet… despite how god-damn _dumb_ Lamar could be, the way the man was grabbing his arm, actually prepared for once with a bag packed with clothes and munitions, maybe Lamar could handle it.

Maybe. Franklin swayed with annoyance, sighing; an undercurrent of nervousness ran down his spine, just enough to make his palms sweaty. How many jobs had they taken, really, and all in all nobody had died other than when they dressed as firefighters and stormed the Agency building; but that was a fluke. A really dangerous, really deadly fluke.

He was going to regret this, later; but right now, it was nostalgia, and a whole lot of guilt that swayed his hand. “Look, alright—come with us, then.”

The hand on his arm immediately pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug; Lamar laughed, thumping Franklin’s back hard, and when they pulled away they bumped fists like usual. It was little amiable motions that they had done and cemented as theirs since high school that reminded Franklin, little bursts of nostalgia even as he grew away from the life. “Fuck yeah! Niggas got to stick together, you know, family dog. Let’s fuckin’ go! ‘bouta go on a casino heist, pop _pop_ some fuckin’ caps in some rich dudes asses and sag some fuckin’ pockets with all these damn chips we gonna collect!”

Lester leaned out of his car, as much as he was bodily able to, his face bright red. “For the love of— _Please_ don’t yell things like that.”

Lamar instantly stopped his pantomiming of shooting his fingers as guns; Franklin shook his head. The other man sighed.

“Fine. So it’s settled, he’s our new gunman? I’m going to assume you two can vet for him.”

“Lamar is a perfectly _austere_ gun connoisseur.” Trevor parroted back in what was assumed to be a mimicry of Lester’s nasally tones. Lamar threw a hand out towards Trevor.

“Yeah, crusty dude, that’s what’s up!”

Franklin was already regretting this, “But I swear, Lamar, if me, or any of us, gotta save yo lanky dumb ass…”

It was already said and done. Lamar pulled Trevor in for a friendly hug, and an awkward fist bump turned handshake which he didn’t even comment on, he was buzzing so brightly with excitement. (Though, when he turned back to Franklin and Trevor smacked his ass, he did yelp a, “Yo, T, cut it with that shit-!”) Chop barked. Lester sat himself back in his car with a pained sigh, turning the ignition back on.

“Listen—“ Lester looked toward Franklin and Trevor, then passingly at Lamar, “I’ll meet you three down there in two days, while I get a few things settled. Your itineraries are in the folders, and I’m sure you can get another bed, at your expense, Franklin.” He added, just a bit dryly. “I want you all to be on your best behavior, which means no girls—“

He jabbed a finger at Franklin.

“No _murders_.”

At Trevor.

“And don’t bring a dog to a job. Take that thing back.” And then, at Lamar, who looked almost offended. He had already thrown his bag into the back seat of Franklin’s car. Chop had made a pillow of it.

“We’ll meet when I text you all, on Thursday, and then get this plan rolling. Just don’t forget, people, this is a heist. A heist in Venturas, but a job first and foremost.”

Trevor leaned back against the side of his Bodhi, giving Lester a fake salute. “Aye aye, el capitain!”

Lester’s reply was a roll of the eyes; he started the van, pulling out. Lamar was getting into his own car as Lester drove away. “Al’ight, homie, let’s get my car back to my house and then we’ll ride together in your whip?”

Franklin watched Chop in his rearview mirror. The Rottweiler looked up at him with suddenly doe-like eyes. “And drop Chop off too, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Chop too.” Lamar quickly muttered as he revved his engine to life. “I’ll race you there! Yo, see you in Venturas, T!”

Trevor saluted the both of them as Lamar, tires squealing, peeled out of the parking lot to the simultaneous shout of Franklin yelling, “Damnit, Lamar, Chop ain’t got a fuckin’ seatbelt, how the hell am I supposed to race—“ but he was driving like a bat out of hell all the same. Trevor chuckled, watching the two disappear amid a few honks from the more pacified drivers currently on the road.

He shook his head, scuffing a boot against the ground of the parking lot. “Crazy fuckin’ kids…” He chuckled, watching a rock scuttle across the tarmac. He hooked his thumbs into the loops of his dirty jeans, taking his time in walking over and heaving himself up into his truck. It was going to be a long ride by himself; he would need his radio on blast, and a few old friends to keep him occupied and sane during the long stretch of desert. In his glove compartment, he pulled out a small bag of speed. He’d just do a little bump or four off the edge of his hunting knife he always carried on him for emergencies, crank some punk and go down route one at a hundred miles per hour.

As he grabbed a pinch of the white powder between his dirty fingers, Trevor caught the sight of a car pulling into the practically deserted parking lot. There wasn’t the telltale colors of a pig, so he ignored it in favor of grabbing his knife from his side and placing it on the dash.

The black Tailgater pulled up to the side of Trevor, one finger holding his free nostril closed, just as he snorted the methamphetamine off the flat side of his knife. “Ah,” His eyes rolled back, slumping against his seat as he sniffed violently. The knife was tossed in the passenger seat, next to the open bag.

His momentary reverie was startled by the sound of a car door closing. Trevor jerked up, looking over.

Michael spun his keys by their ring nervously in his hand, catching it momentarily. The other hand he had grasped a much-too nice looking leather overnight bag. He wasn’t looking up at Trevor. He cleared his throat, finally making eye contact. “I, uh. I’m not too late, am I?”

Trevor’s eyebrows rose up, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. “Family forever 88, huh?”

His look of cowed hesitance turned to mild amusement: “The kid really needs to change his damn password and keep his coordinates off that fruit-bowl thing. Lester’s gonna rip him a new one if he keeps doing that.”

Michael walked over to the driver’s side of the car, leaning against it. Trevor pointedly kept his arm where it was, hanging off the edge of the window. Michael shirked away from touching him when he realized Trevor wouldn’t move aside to let him lean properly; he cleared his throat, “Look, uh. T. About everythin’-“

The car rumbled to life, shamefully startling Michael in flinching at the dull roar.

“YeahyeahYEAH _whatever,_ get in the fuckin’ card, Townley!” His voice and the car, a one-two punch of sound to efficiently silence Michael. “If you wanna leave, we’re leaving now. Frank told me you said no, that you were getting soft, and even _squishier_. Like always, you’re lucky your snakey, snoopy nature helped you out and you got here before I left, sugartits.”

Michael shook his head. It passed, in-between them; the root of things were going unsaid, for now, to come out in jabs and pet names dripping with acidic sarcasm. He could turn around now; take the acidity as a no, and forget the job.

Trevor’s fingers itched over the steering wheel, its worn leather creaking. Michael threw his bag in the back of the Bodhi, and walked around to the passenger side; there was thinly-veiled annoyance as he picked up the bag of crystal and the large bowie knife before sitting down. “You, uh,” He gestured towards the items as he shoved them back into the open glove compartment. “You gonna be okay to drive?”

Trevor waved a dismissive hand, giving Michael’s cheek a none-too-comforting pap with the back of his hand. He recoiled almost immediately from it. “Shhh, I’ll be _fine_ , don’t worry about me. But know this—you’re my co-pilot on this ride, brother. So when I need my second hit, you better be able to prepare it and hold it up without slicing my nose off, at least hold the wheel while I rub some shit on my gums. I brought some weed and shrooms…” At this point, he was holding a hand up, counting off, “and a bit of acid, couple Quaaludes… think I gotta saltshaker of cocaine back there too, and a thirty pack of beer, some raw ether…”

He shrugged jovially. “Help yourself!”

Michael opened his mouth, to say something, and Trevor even braced himself for the usual Michael De Santa bullshit that would pour out of his mouth as he twisted in his seat and threw an arm around to back out of the parking spot. But nothing came. They sat in silence as Trevor pulled out and away. After a few streets had passed, Michael unbuckled his seat belt and reached around the back.

Trevor glanced into his rearview window. The cooler opened and shut. Michael sat back in his seat, twisting off the bottle cap with a grunt. The weather was just verging on hot enough that the wind from the truck’s perpetually open windows was more soothing than annoying. Michael propped his feet up on the front of the dash, taking a long swig.

Trevor turned the radio on, and up, up, up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! I always appreciate everyone's comments critiques and kudos, so thank you so much.


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